


What Are We Doing Here?

by macgyvershe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Apologies, M/M, Misunderstanding, Reading the truth, Truth that can't be faked, cricket chirping silence, fuff, non-canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 03:16:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13895076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macgyvershe/pseuds/macgyvershe
Summary: It's been a long night. Is something happening? Is someone hungry? Misunderstanding. How does John make it right? The only way he can. With the only man who can understand him.





	What Are We Doing Here?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fjuri-the-fury](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=fjuri-the-fury).



“Sherlock, really, what are we doing here?” John squats behind a skip in the middle of the night. A night which seriously threatens rain. Serious rain.

Sherlock’s eyes twinkle and his fabulously luscious lips make a minuscule smile that is so child-like that John wants to laugh out loud.

“We were purportedly going to be staking out this position looking for men of questionable proclivities. But as we have been here for a mere five hours, John, it looks like our dirty birds have flown. I can see that your monumental patience has started to dwindle down to a tiny molehill, so let us head back to Baker Street.”

“At last.” John stands, stomping around to try to get his circulation back to his lower extremes. Standing, Sherlock twirls, his coat flaring theatrically and grabs John. Hurrying them both out of the alley way and into the approaching fog. 

“Oh great, this fog is going to make it impossible...” 

Before John can finish the sentence, Sherlock has magnetically attracted one of the only working cabs in this nearly abandoned area of outer London.

As they tumble into the cab giggling and laughing, the cab driver isn’t in on the joke. 

“Where to gents?”

“221 Baker Street.” Sherlock states with gravitas as he straightens his scarf.

“You are going to have to tell me how you do that? Magic, teleportation, good genes?”

“It’s called a mobile app, John. You are over thinking things again.”

Companionably, Sherlock throws his arm around John and draws him into a squeezing man-hug.

John can’t help but enjoy the affection that Sherlock is offering. 

“You seem awfully perky for having been on a stake out that gave us bupkus.” 

John’s midnight blue eyes lock onto Sherlock’s. He perceives a subtle melting of Sherlock’s frosty, feistiness and he likes it. Really likes it. Further discussion dwindles down to furtive glances at each other and out the appropriate cab windows.

Arriving home, John pays the cabbie, then bounds up the stairs after Sherlock. Enter into the sitting room he finds Sherlock drawing off his notorious scarf and disengaging from his beloved Belstaff. Pirouetting gracefully, John can tell Sherlock is feeling a tad frisky.

“Well, aside from that being a total waste of time. The biting cold was invigorating don’t you think?”

(-_-) 

“I can do without the odoriferous alley effluvium, but I have to say there is nowhere I’d rather be than squatting at your side in the frozen wastes of London.” John licks his thawing lips as he divests himself of coat, scarf, hat and gloves. Noticing that Sherlock is very attentive to his slowly warming lips.

“I’ll do tea.” John ventures into the kitchen as Sherlock begins to dig into the piles of plethora that are a mainstay of the setting room. 

As John brings the tea tray, warmed scones and his curiosity into Sherlock; he finds his mad genius elbow deep into a box that has mysteriously appeared.

“Feel free to let me know what is going on at your earliest convenience, right.”

“I was attempting to locate some statistical data that I squirreled away, but now that you can give me your full attention I can delay that prior activity. I am inspired by your company, John. It never ceases to amaze me how everything is enhanced by your presence.”

“You did call me your ‘conductor of light’.” John grins like the idiot that he is.

Sherlock finds it hard not to beam back. His laser beam focus makes normal mortals disintegrate within seconds. Yet John seems to bask in his spotlight, absorbing it like he’ll perish without it.

After all they have been through, the ups and downs; the sideways and roller coaster rides. Now seems so comfortable, so enjoyable, so freaking far away from any kind of normal. Yet, so unabashedly unconventionally conventional. 

Handing Sherlock his cuppa with his scone wrapped in a napkin, John sits in his chair. Sherlock glides into HIS chair. Slipping out of his expensive shoes, sidling his long legs up against John’s feet. Encompassing them, rubbing up against John’s ankles and threatening to move up further.

Raising his blonde eyebrows and then lowering them in a knowing squint. John knows where this is leading, or does he?

Sherlock sips his tea. Closing his eyes in the tiny time of Nirvana that it brings to his highly sophisticated taste buds. Then heartlessly devours a majority of his scone with great, almost bestial glee. 

“Would you like something to eat?” John's voice is even, investigatory even.

Sherlock opens his mouth. John can see Sherlock’s extra long tongue deep within the confines of that extraordinary tart, acidic and gifted mouth.

Sherlock leans forward. John can smell the strong essence of Bergamont tea on his breath. Snapping his mouth shut, Sherlock makes humming sounds. 

“Would I like to eat something? Eat a thing? Eating?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes, hungry much?” John makes an amused face. One that Sherlock finds egregiously adorable. 

“I am hungry.” Sherlock could actually be hungry.

“Would you like Tai, Italian, Chinese, Moroccan, Indian, Japanese.” John shuffles through the take away menus in a basket next to his chair.

Sherlock slides his feet up behind John’s calves. His long feet massaging the musculature with incredible expertise.

Stopping everything, John slides down in his chair so that he is even closer to the tempting movements of those long, elegant, mesmerizing feet.

Then suddenly, John pops up. Eyes wide. Taking a deep, deep breath. “Is this a frigging experiment, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looks indignant, affronted, confounded. Huffing a breath that resembles a dying damsel in distress he stands. “I was attempting my version of foreplay.” He turns and walks towards his bedroom. Remembers his shoes. Comes back, picks them up and exits into his bedroom, where he closes the door gently.

“Shite.” John slumps back into his chair. Head in his hands, as he berates himself for being a thousand kinds of fool. 

“Why didn’t I just keep my mouth shut?” John stands and walks over to Sherlock’s door. Clearing his throat, he taps on the door. “Sherlock.” Another deep breath. “Sherlock, we need to talk. I was being an ass and I’d like to talk to you.”

Door opens. “The line for asses attempting to apologize ques up at the other end of London.” Sherlock walks to the door pulls his scarf off the hook. Drapes it around his neck.

“You going out?”

“I’m hungry, heading for Angelo’s.” He takes down his Belstaff and puts it on.

“I’ll come with, if that’s alright with you?”

“There are no restrictions on where you go or with whom.” Sherlock says as he pockets his mobile and checks his coat pockets.

John scrambles to get his coat and gloves on, thinking a hat and scarf would do well on this chilly evening. 

Down the stairs and out the front door they move. It isn’t a long walk and John notices that Sherlock isn’t walking full tilt. So he can actually keep up with him. 

At Angelo’s they remove their coats and scarves, placing them on hooks close to their favorite table. Angelo is there making happy. Handing them menu’s, placing a candle on the table. Going to bring a bottle of wine.

John pulls the candle closer between he and Sherlock. He’s making sad puppy dog eyes at Sherlock. As Sherlock is paying way too much attention to the menu which he already knows by heart.

“I feel terrible.” John looks directly at Sherlock.

“As well you should. I have been working on that scenario for weeks now.”

“After dinner we can go home and try it again. I’ll be quiet this time, promise.”

Sherlock clears his throat and glances at John. “To say that the mood has evaporated seems to trivialize the sincerity of my regards. 

John is utterly shocked. How had he even doubted Sherlock wasn’t being real. He gathers his courage around him.

“What can I do to make this better? I’ve obviously been a complete dick.” 

Billy, Angelo’s nephew, comes to take their orders. He also pours their wine. Very expensive wine.

Sherlock sips his wine as Billy moves away to take their orders to the kitchen.

The meal is cricket chirp quiet. John eats mechanically. Sherlock actually pushes his food from one side of the plate to the other, nibbling as he motivates the food.

Sherlock left hand lays on the table as he’s eating. John slowly moves his left hand to caress and cover Sherlock’s.

Sherlock looks down at their joined hands. His eyes then travel up to John’s. John’s eyes are a deep oceanic blue with flecks of darkness swirling in them. Without saying words, John makes a series of micro-expressions. These tiny flashes of feelings can not be faked. Occurring at 1/15 to 1/25 of a second these expressions are not readable by normal people. But he’s looking at the World’s One and only Consulting Detective who can read seconds as easily as he can deduce the killer of a locked room murder.

This is the one and only way to speak truth to a man who deals in deadly truths. 

Sherlock’s eyes lose intensity. The heterochromia iridis of his eyes in the candle light move from green to blue and back to green again.

John’s smile broadens. A glaze of wetness appears in his eyes. Unshed tears that make those eyes shine with adoration, with love, with unbridled lust.

Bidding Angelo and Billy good-bye and praising their dinner to the skies. Angelo makes sure they take some Tiramisu home for later consumption. He can see they are in a rush to get home. Gathering up their coats they head home in a slow companionable silence. Gloved hands gripping each other tightly. Smiles knowing and anticipatory. 

“What are we doing here.” It is not a question Sherlock is voicing.

John whispers. “We’re beginning something that should have started long ago. Something we both desire and deserve.”

**Author's Note:**

> Micro-expressions is a real thing. And I'm sure that Sherlock would be the master of micro-expressions. Seeing the truth in John's face. Micro-expressions don't lie.


End file.
